


In The Dark, I Give You My Heart

by octoberland



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Smut, Meat eating, Mention of abuse, Romance, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberland/pseuds/octoberland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl and Carol finally get some alone time in Alexandria. After a shower and a good home cooked meal they get to know each other a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark, I Give You My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is from another Tumblr prompt in which I was asked to write Carol cooking for Daryl. As is typical for me, it got a little dark and a little smutty. There is mention of the abuse Daryl suffered along with general depressing thoughts typical for this show. Also, as a content warning, there is detailed description of meat and eating. And there is light smut. I have a couple more prompts lined up but please feel free to send me more.
> 
> No copyright infringement intended anywhere. I do not own these characters. I'm just drowning in feels.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments always welcome.

"You comin'?"

he said.

Carol stood facing the street, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the neighborhood.

"I have to make a casserole," she replied. She might as well have been announcing she had to go pull a splinter out of her foot, for all her enthusiasm.

Daryl grunted.

"Have fun," she said to him, dismissively. He half expected her to kiss him on the cheek and hand him a lunch. It would have been comical if not for the fact that he knew her for what she was and not what she appeared to be. She'd been many things since they first started sharing camp all those years ago; wife, mother, victim. Truth be told, he'd wanted to wallop her a couple of times himself back then. But things had changed a lot. Now she stood here, a wolf in plain sight, hidden among the sheep, and he felt a burst of pride.

Carol noticed he hadn't left yet and that, in fact, he was staring at her.

"What?" she asked, eyes narrowing, reading him in the way that only she could.

Daryl shook his head, tried to clear it of the thoughts that were becoming more and more pervasive; thoughts that had no business in the end of the world.

"Nothing," he said, turning his back on her. "You still look ridiculous," he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

_Later…_

It had been another fruitless hunt. He was getting tired of possum. They needed real meat, not the stringy bare bones of vermin that were starving. He'd give just about anything for a good steak right now, rare, or maybe some liver and onions, or fried catfish, or his mamaw's fried chicken and applesauce. He'd only ever had that last one the once, right before she died, but he remembered it like yesterday; sitting on her dirty plaid couch, television on, screen flickering as Merle futzed with the rabbit ears, wrapping tinfoil around them to try and get better reception. The whole house smelled like cooking oil and cigarette smoke and cat piss.

Daryl sat there, hands greasy, eating so fast he almost made himself sick. Their Pa never cooked like this for them. At home they ate butter sandwiches, fried bologna, and stuck their hands in tubs of homemade pimento cheese their neighbor brought over. When they got a little older Merle tried to do some of the cooking. Mostly he sucked at it but there was one thing he made that Daryl liked. Beanie weenies. They liked saying it just as much as they liked eating it. Weenie… and they'd snicker, but only when their father wasn't home. When he was home it was better to be quiet. If you weren't quiet, you got the belt.

Daryl's stomach grumbled as he approached the Alexandria gate and he debated where to go. Aaron was decent enough company and always seemed to have a plate of food ready. It was strange, he knew, being friendly with someone like him. Merle would have called Aaron a fairy, maybe even would have beaten him up. He'd have laughed at Daryl, told him he'd go soft hanging out with the likes of Aaron. And Daryl would have listened to his brother, would have shunned Aaron, or worse. But Merle was dead, and Aaron wasn't, and besides, Daryl wasn't that person anymore. None of them were who they used to be anymore.

He thought about going to Rick's. He'd already spent a few nights there. Rick didn't hover, didn't give him a funny look when he hunkered down on the floor for the night, back to the wall, weapon by his side. But he was starting to feel like an intruder, like some sort of peeping Tom looking in. Every night Carl went up the stairs to his room, polite enough, because that's how he'd been raised, but always with a look in his eye that was just a little too much this side of pity for Daryl's comfort. And Daryl saw the way Michonne looked at Rick, could see clear enough that she wished she were alone with him. _Fool_ , thought Daryl as he shook his head. Michonne was a good woman and Rick was being an idiot. 

Before he even realized what he was doing, Daryl found himself standing in front of Carol's house. It disturbed him, how he always found himself drawn to her. In the beginning it was easy to dismiss. Her child was missing. He had nothing better to do he'd told her. But that wasn't the whole truth. Truth was, something had shifted inside of him the day he watched her bash her dead husband's skull in. It was subtle at first; just a small seed coming out of storage and feeling warmth for the first time. It was buried so deep inside him that he barely noticed it at all. Up until then the map of his social life drew a wide chasm around him, one of his making. People were the enemy. They wanted something from you. The only reason he was even with the group was 'cause Merle had said they'd be easy pickings. Plan was to take what they needed and move on, which wasn't all that different from how they'd lived before.

Up until that moment, when he saw her grief turn to anger and vengeance, Daryl had seen everyone else, including her, as 'other'. Only Merle understood him. Only Merle could understand what he'd been through. Least, that's what he'd thought. This woman, this plain, unassuming, meek woman, couldn't possibly have anything in common with him. He wasn't a victim. She was. She cried like one. She cowered in front of her husband, eager to please him. She was weak. Until she wasn't. Until that day when he saw something besides a woman easily overlooked. And then he found he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He thought, if he looked at her hard enough, and long enough, maybe he could figure her out, because he knew now, there was more to her than any of them had seen.

So he'd tried to find her daughter. And he'd tried to comfort her as best he could. And like Merle with cooking, Daryl sucked with people, so they fought, spinning in and out of each other's orbits, but always finding their way back no matter how lost they got. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened but at some point things had changed again; another subtle shift, that buried seed cracking open, frail green tendril reaching for the sun. It could have been that time he thought she was dead. Or maybe the first time she'd flirted with him, her confidence shining bright like a star. Maybe it was just the way she'd grown, like deep down she'd been born for this world and just hadn't known it yet. Daryl didn't know, and he didn't really care.

 _Fool_ , he thought again. Only this time he was thinking of himself. What he felt? That didn't belong in this world. That got you killed in this world. Yeah, sure, there was Maggie and Glenn, but the way he figured it, they were a miracle, and likely there was only room for one miracle.

He was about to turn and leave, spend the night wandering Alexandria, maybe hide himself away in the watchtower, but then he smelled it. His body reacted immediately, mouth watering and stomach rumbling. The sudden hunger he felt was so strong it made him lightheaded. It was like his body was remembering all at once that real food was a thing he had not had in a very long time. It was easy out there, to fool yourself into thinking every little scrap of food was heaven, as though worms and snakes were a feast, and stomach pains a reminder of life; easy to forget how you stayed awake nights on watch so you didn't have to lie there and feel your stomach churn. 

He found himself walking up the stairs to Carol's house like some sort of snake being charmed. Only it wasn't music that drew him in. It was that smell, that unmistakable smoky fatty smell. Daryl wondered if he was hallucinating. How could anyone in this world have bacon? Whatever was left when the world ended would be sitting rotting in the bottom of broken freezers and refrigerators. He didn't even bother knocking, and when he opened the door another smell hit him. Impossible, he thought, as the metallic scent of deer meat filled his nostrils.

Carol was in the kitchen and she looked every bit the part she was playing. She even had an apron on. She was just pulling the pan out of the oven when he entered the room. He was too dumbfounded to say anything so he just stood there. The meat was so hot it was bubbling, bacon fat sizzling and oozing out from around it. He watched as she pulled out a cutting board and placed the meat on it. He watched as she cut into it, blood seeping out, and perfect pink inside. Through it all she paid him no mind. He knew she knew he was there. There was no way she didn't know. But she ignored him, focusing on the food instead. She carried the serving plate past him and to the dining table which, he saw, was set with dinnerware and a casserole dish he assumed was filled with some kind of side.

She pulled off her apron and turned to him, sly smile on her face.

"You want that?" she asked, head tilted, lilt in her voice he hadn't heard since the prison.

Daryl's brow furrowed.

Carol pulled out one of the dining chairs and in it Daryl saw was a neatly folded towel. She picked it up and threw it at him. He caught it in his free hand.

"Shower, now," she said, pointing at the stairs behind him.

Daryl looked at the roast. "It'll get cold." He knew he sounded like a petulant child, knew too that he'd do just about anything she asked if it meant he could eat what was on that table.

"Then I guess you better be quick," she said as she sat in the pulled out chair. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, daring him to challenge her.

He considered it, considered grabbing it right off the table and running out the door with it. His eyes flicked to it and then back to her, and… he didn't know. Maybe it was the clothes she was wearing, maybe it was her sitting by herself at that big table with its lace cloth, or maybe it was just that they hadn't had a single moment alone together since they'd got here. Whatever it was, he decided he couldn't do that to her. She wanted him to shower? He'd shower.

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a slight nod. Daryl turned, taking large strides down the hallway and depositing his crossbow as he went. He took the stairs two at a time, fighting the urge to shed his clothes as he went. 

The shower he took was a cursory one, cold and quick. He shivered as he wiped the muck from his skin and hair, didn't even bother using the soap. Still, he saw the water turn brown as it ran down the drain. His hair was greasy, hands rough and calloused. He peed while standing there and the warmth felt good.

He had half a mind to walk down there naked and dripping and take the roast right off the table, meat slick in his bare hands. He'd bite into it, eyes never leaving hers, daring her to say something. But he was only that bold in his mind. Instead he put on the clean clothes she'd laid out for him, wondered how she'd known he would even come by, and headed downstairs, bare feet padding on the hard floor.

She was filling one of the plates when he got there and he pulled out a chair opposite her. She assessed him as she worked, eyes roaming what she could see of him, and then nostrils flaring as she sniffed.  
"Better," she said as she handed him a plate.

Daryl didn't waste any time. He tucked into the meat, not even bothering with the utensils. He wasn't trying to be ill-mannered. He was just so damn hungry. The grease slid down his fingers, and once more he felt nauseous, like he was going to be sick. He felt his mouth flooding with saliva as he chewed the meat. He also felt Carol's eyes on him and looked up. She sat there, back straight, elbows off the table, silver fork held delicately in her slim hand.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked, mouth full, trying to switch attention away from him.

It worked. Carol focused back onto her own plate, spearing a piece of canned potato, the side dish, onto her fork.

"One of the women," she said. She paused, shook her head, "She cures meat." Daryl could hear the disdain in her voice. She popped the piece of potato into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. "It's a hobby," she continued, vision focused on her plate. "We're out there, people are out there, starving, and she's curing meat for the fun of it, like it's some sort of goddamned farmers' market."  
Carol's shoulders slumped. "They're all dead. You know that, right?" She leveled her gaze on him, letting him see how weary she actually was.

Daryl swallowed the bit of meat he had in his mouth and reached for a napkin, wiping his hands. 'I know," he said, crumpling the soiled napkin and tossing it onto the table.

Carol pushed her plate away, meal only half eaten, and leaned back in her chair.

It was weird seeing her like this. The clothes, the house, the role she was playing; she'd done it before, done it for real once, but it looked wrong on her. He didn't like it.

"Maybe we should leave." He said it without even thinking, the words just rolling off his tongue like it was the most natural idea, and maybe it was. He didn't belong here and neither did she. "You and me," he clarified.

She looked at him, and he could see her weighing his words, trying to decipher whether or not he meant it. For a brief moment her eyes wavered, as though recalling a memory.

"We can't," she said, finally. She leaned in and cut another chunk off the roast that she deposited onto his plate.

Daryl grunted, acknowledging what she'd said, and picked up his fork and his knife. 

They ate the rest of the meal in silence; well, he ate and she stared off into the distance, replaying some memory she clearly wasn't ready to share yet. When she heard the clang of his fork and knife coming to rest across his empty plate she stood and began gathering the dishes. Daryl stood too, made his way around the table, and then took the plates from her.

"I got this," he said, voice gentle.

She paused for a moment, then, "You wash, I'll dry?" she said.

Daryl nodded, and made his way to the kitchen.

It had been a long time since Daryl had washed anything other than walker blood off his arrows. And even before all this he'd been known to use paper plates and cups just so he didn't have to wash dishes. He stood at the sink, eyeing it like it was a puzzle, before dropping the plates a little too loudly into the sink. He turned on the water and after a few seconds began to see steam rise as it heated up.

"Here," said Carol as she reached around him, body close. She'd used soap, he could tell. She smelled good, better than he did. She pulled a little stopper from the side of the sink and plugged the drain. Water started filling up.

"Wastes less water that way," she explained.

Daryl stood, mesmerized, ignoring his task. He wasn't prone to moments of desire, had rarely ever indulged such thoughts, never mind actions, but in that moment a part of him really just wanted to get her out of those awful clothes, take her upstairs, and then… well, he didn't know what, but something.

"Daryl?" she asked, towel in hand, waiting.

"Yeah," he said and turned his attention back to the dishes. He poured some soap into the sink, then took the sponge and began scrubbing. The water was hot, too hot, it turned his hands red and made him wince, but he kept going, determined.

"How'd you know?" he asked without looking up.

When she didn't answer he spared her a glance. She was smirking, attention focused on the plate she was drying.

"You come by every night," she said.

"I do not." Daryl went back to focusing on the dishes.

"You do," Carol pressed. She took the cup he held out, their fingers brushing against each other. "Every night you patrol this neighborhood, and every night you stand out on that sidewalk looking up at my house." She placed the dry cup in the rack and took a fork from him. "It's cute," she said, smiling again. "Stupid, but cute."

Daryl's ego, what there was of it, bristled.

"Why's it stupid?"

Carol put the fork down. "Because they'll wonder," she said. "They already wonder about you. I don't need them wondering about me."

Again, body close, she reached around him and pulled the plug from the sink. He heard the water swooshing down, hadn't even realized he was done.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here." He'd meant it to sound harsh, meant to use the words as a shield, to steel himself for their inevitable separation, for another night spent outside, away from her, away from everyone. Instead, it came out as a whisper, the words weak on his lips, unconvincing.

Carol looked up at him. "No, you shouldn't," she said, voice low.

The air seemed thick suddenly, heavy with words not spoken, possibility pregnant in the air around them. For a few moments neither one of them said anything. They just stared at each other, waiting, breathing, silent aside from the light patter of rain against the house.

"Stay," she said at last, and Daryl, dumbfounded, could only nod.

She took his hand in hers and led him up the stairs and into the large bedroom. The bed was white and soft and the mattress sank beneath their weight. There, in the soft light of an oil lamp, she told him. She told him about the grove, about the girls, about all the things she'd done. She cried, and he let her. He wanted to tell her how he'd hurt himself, how he felt responsible for Beth dying. But now was her time, not his. Eventually she stopped crying, she wiped her tears away with the back of her hands. She took a moment to go to the bathroom. He heard the toilet flush, heard the water when she washed her hands, then the flick of the light switch.

When she came back he felt a moment of panic. Gone was the Alexandrian charade. She'd stripped down to her underwear and a tank top. She looked more her than he'd seen in days. And it was more of her than he'd ever seen before, all legs and muscle and pale skin.

She climbed on top of him without saying a word, and pulled him to her, grabbing the fabric of his t-shirt. At first the kiss was tentative, as though she was silently seeking permission, then it grew rougher, until finally Daryl responded. He kissed back, rolled her over so he was on top, and that was how they spent the night; like two teenagers feeling each other up for the first time. They kissed until his mouth was sore, muscles in his face protesting. The played tug of war with his clothes, his pants the only item he'd cede, much to Carol's frustration. She'd laid out a fresh pair of underwear, still wrapped in plastic, and he'd actually chosen to wear them. She sighed heavily, an exaggerated sigh directed right at him. He rolled them over again, used his legs for leverage, heard her gasp, felt the heat of her against his thigh, and stilled. Then, slowly, he shifted his leg again, experimentally, and the sound she made… well, he'd never heard anything like it.

The first time she came he wanted to swallow the sound and bury it for safekeeping. He stuck his tongue so far into her mouth that her teeth grazed it. The second time she came, she broke down crying and Daryl thought he had done something wrong. He pulled his fingers out, started spewing apologies, but she'd shushed him.

She tried to touch him, tried to do for him what he'd done for her, but he stopped her. It's not that he didn't want it, that he didn't want her. He just… wasn't ready yet. He felt childish and small and his body was still struggling to learn that not every touch was a lash or a strike or a measure of hate.

So instead he clasped her hands in his, twined their fingers together to keep them from roaming his ruined skin, and kissed her till they both felt sleepy, the weight of their earlier meal eventually triggering their bodies to rest. He watched her as the lamp burned low and the light died down, fading from golden to just shades of brown and black. He wondered, there in the silence and the relative safety, how long each of them had, knew their days were numbered. Knew everyone's days were numbered. He wondered what their lives would be like in the real world, if such a thing ever existed again. Would she work? Would they go on dates? Hold hands in public while walking down the street? Daryl cleared the thoughts from his mind. That life wasn't for them. It hadn't ever been for them.

By the time he got up to leave she was in a deep sleep, chest rising and falling with each breath. He took an afghan that was tossed across a chair and laid it over her. Then, eyes never leaving her, he snuffed the flame of the lamp, memorizing every line of her sleeping face before it was shrouded in darkness.

He'd dressed in the hall, shedding the clean clothes she'd given him in favor of his old ones. They smelled bad, but underneath, on his skin, he could smell her; her soap, the salt of her sweat, her musk on his fingers. 

He walked the neighborhood as the sun rose, turning the sky from black to grey to pink. The rain had stopped, and the grass was wet with dew. He heard doves cooing in the distance, but otherwise all was quiet.  
He should have felt safe, happy even, but deep down he knew she was right. Each one of these houses, these shiny, new, modern houses was a coffin. It was just the people inside didn't know it yet.

The only thing he could hope for, whatever happened, however it went down, was that her nine lives weren't up yet. She'd used a bunch. He knew that, had been there for some of them. But maybe, just maybe, if they were lucky they each had one left in them; one more chance to talk, one more shared meal, one more night where they could just be a man and a woman instead of prey, instead of survivors. 

_Just one more…_


End file.
